


Masterpiece

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [14]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gen, Psychological Torture, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 13:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4830494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mind truly is a thing of beauty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Masterpiece

**Author's Note:**

> Victor discovers a new side to Iris' imagination. Canon plot mixed with AU, mostly set during episodes 13 through 15.

A cool morning with pale skies and an abundance of grey clouds, promising rain later in the day, finds him stretched across a white marble fountain in the park, taking full advantage of the morning hour and the consequential lack of human presence. Hands folded across his stomach, eyes glowering up at the skies, jaw locked, he is thinking and pondering and—yes, he’ll admit it—sulking.

He’s been here for an hour, maybe two—frankly, he lost track five minutes in—lying perfectly still and glaring at the sky as though it has personally offended him. Pouting like a toddler isn’t really getting him anywhere, and staying in place for hours on end certainly isn’t helping. He’s almost wishing the park was full of people; at least then he could relieve this stress and tension by gutting someone.

When his view of the sky is obstructed by dark curls tumbling loose around his face and a pair of sharp blue eyes gazing down into his, it does at least make him feel a little better. Not much, but a little. The way she settles on her knees and rests her hands on his shoulders helps a bit more. Her touch still soothes him, even all these years later.

“I know this look.” She says, lazily brushing thumbs over his jaw. “What is wrong, my tiger?”

“Nothing.” _Oh, fantastic_ , now he really sounds like a pouting toddler.

“Do not play that game.” She says with a pointed look and arched eyebrow; after a moment’s consideration, he adjusts himself and rests his head atop her thighs. Her fingers brush slow, meditative strokes across his brow and down the line of his jaw, nails lightly scraping here and there and striking his nerves in _just_ the right way. “Tell me.”

Her continued caresses are soothing, incredibly relaxing, and after another minute or two, he sighs, presses further into her lap, and reopens his closed eyes. “Don Falcone doesn’t want to throw Butch away. He thinks he can still be useful and wants to keep him around. Which means I have to deal with him before I can work on Fish.” 

He huffs, jaw tightening again at the thought of it, and then continues, “And Butch is being incredibly difficult.”

“Difficult?”

“He’s not responding to the usual treatment. It doesn’t affect him, not as it does others I’ve worked on. If anything,” he smirks without humor, “I think he may be accustomed to it, having Fish walk all over him with those heels for so long.”

Iris falls silent for a short time. “He is numb to physical torture.” She says, far more succinctly than his elegant rephrasing of the matter. “I am guessing, then, your present mood is a direct result of him mocking your attempts with brutish immaturity and similar commentary?”

Ah, but she does know him too well. “Yes.”

Silence again, and much longer than before. He lifts his eyes to her face and finds the expression incredibly contemplative, thoughtful, processing her next words with uncertainty. He’s seen the look before—a person thinking about whether they should or shouldn’t, if they speak or remain silent—but never on her. Iris doesn’t think about whether she’s going to say something offensive or impolite or anything of the like. She speaks, and that’s it. End of story, done and done. But right now…she’s very, very seriously thinking about what she’s going to say, and he is intrigued, and confused, and curious.

“Will you come back with me to the apartment?” she finally asks, very quietly. The answer is obvious, of course; he isn’t achieving anything by lying here and sulking and feeling sorry for himself, and a good long walk will clear his head quite nicely. And it will be in her company, which should make things even better, even if not provide a solution to his dilemma.

They always appear a contradiction when walking down the street together; from the first time, when she was a young teenager, to now when she is a woman of nearly twenty, they are mismatched and people do throw questioning looks while passing them by. Today, however, they are even more a contrast: he’s in all black, as usual, and she is in a white dress with turquoise accents and full lace skirts, and heels to match. The dress itself isn’t terrible, if perhaps a little reminiscent of a schoolgirl, but the sight of her in white makes him slightly ill.

When asked, she tells him the change in attire was for a school function: some of the local high schools have sought her out as a public speaker, a motivation for the younger crowd to continue their education and pursue college degrees for the professional benefits attached. The thought of her addressing high school students does, at least, make him smirk. She’s probably scarred half of them for life.

Her head comes to rest on his shoulder, one hand dropping down to catch his and entwine their fingers. A rather sentimental gesture, but it’s not the first time they’ve held hands in public—now that she’s an adult and not a child, it probably looks a little less scandalous—and he is very fond of the embrace. He can feel the soft beat of her pulse— _one, two, three, four_ —beneath white skin, pressed to his. It’s soothing, elegant, and musical.

More people stare now that Iris has rested so close against him, hand captured in his, head upon his shoulder. In their eyes, he can see just how much a contradiction they appear to the general public. They’ll never pass for a normal, respectable couple. She is too pure, too gentle and elegant in feature, too beautiful…there are times when she even appears angelic. And he is the devil in black who has snatched her from heaven. People will always stare at them, at her more than him, and make assumptions; they see a victim or they see a whore. Sweet stolen angel or corrupted lost soul. No one will ever think she belongs with him. They don’t fit together, not in the way people expect. There are times when the mere thought makes him boil with rage, and other times when he simply wants to gouge out the wandering eyes. The blind cannot pass judgment.

When they reach the apartment, she breaks the shared embrace to unlock the door and allow him inside. She tells him she won’t be long before venturing up to her loft, and then he hears rummaging and the shifting of objects, from here to there. He passes the time by taking note of the décor, again, and the furniture placement, and the artwork mounted on certain walls. The furniture is not his style, at all, and the artwork is atrocious, but all of it speaks to a _home_. His place is not a home. It’s barren, empty, and while he knows it’s for a very logical reason, it’s not a home. He wonders if Iris feels out of place there, hence the reason she always returns here. Perhaps he could take the time to redecorate, if it would make her happy.

…When, how, and why did he managed to topple so far from his place as the feared demon of Gotham’s underworld to a man contemplating home decoration?

“Perhaps,” Iris says very slowly, when she has summoned him up to her loft bedroom and he finds her with a very thick binder in hand, which she then extends to him, looking remarkably uneasy and anxious about it, “you will find this useful in solving your dilemma.”

His eyebrows lift a bit as he takes the offering; it is indeed very heavy and very full. “What is it?”

She exhales tightly, drawing her lips inward and then releasing them, closing her eyes briefly and slowly reopening them. “My original thesis.”

_Original?_ She had time to write two of those literary monstrosities? _When_ did the girl sleep? _Did_ she even sleep? He should have paid closer attention and drugged her drinks more often. “And you didn’t use it, because…?”

If Iris could look more uncomfortable right now, he wouldn’t bet on it. Her hands are tightly clenched, but he can still see them quivering, she’s breathing very slowly and very tightly, and she won’t look him in the eye. “My professor threatened, should I choose to go ahead and use it, to report me to the board of ethics.”

Her comment inspires all manner of questions and further inquiries, but she’s already collecting her coat and smoothing herself to perfection. “I have to get back to the precinct.” She says. “James has two fresh bodies with no answers, many questions, and limited time. I will see you when I can get away…but I may be spending quite a bit of time at the office until we find the man responsible.”

Without warning, she steps closer, kisses him, and leaves, like a brightly-smiling wife bidding her husband farewell while he sees her off for the day with a smile and a cup of coffee in hand. Only, in this case, she’s not brightly smiling and he’s holding a massive binder full of who-knows-what instead of coffee. And whatever is inside this binder was apparently cause for great distress on her part, for reasons he doesn’t yet know.

But he’s never been one to sit idle, not when there’s something to explore, or, more specifically, a book to read. He was always a voracious reader as a child, pouring over the books in his father’s library and expanding his knowledge as often as possible, spending hours and hours in the company of literature. So, making himself comfortable on the couch downstairs, he opens the binder and begins to read.

The pages are aged and filled to the brim with Iris’ elegant script, line to line, edge to edge. For the first seventeen pages, there is only writing: a history of psychology that she rather eloquently transitioned into a discussion of Medieval torture methods, and how torture has progressed throughout the generations, and finally a concluding paragraph to introduce her main argument. Up until this point, he’s been intrigued, because Iris truly is a wonderful writer and can captivate the audience with something as mundane as history, on topics most probably could care less about. And then his eyes catch the introductory lines into her next topic:

_It stands to reason, given the crude, poorly-designed, and similarly poorly-executed, methods of torture utilized in the early days, improvements could easily be made with the recent improvements in psychological research. While the torture methods used in early days relied solely on physical brutality and inspiring confessions—false and otherwise—from the individual through extreme suffering, this can easily be improved by relying less on base brutality and delving deeper into the fragility of the human mind. This essay will hence argue for subtle methods, which can not only inspire desired confessions and the extraction of information from an individual, but if utilized to a greater extent, can also result in permanent psychosis. An individual exposed to the discussed method of psychological torment could also, reasonably, undergo a complete transformation of their personality, dependent upon the exact methods utilized._

He is transfixed, captivated, and he barely blinks while continuing through the next forty-five pages, each of which are filled with more and more of her beautiful writing and elegant phrasing and her absolutely _delicious_ theories, complete with hand-drawn and intricately-detailed diagrams. It takes him exactly thirty-three seconds to realize, with overwhelming delight, that he is holding the answer in his hands. _This_ is how he will recycle Butch Gilzean and recreate him to suit Don Falcone’s needs and desires. But why stop there? With Fish…with _her_ , he can dismantle that woman from the inside out, bit by bit, piece by piece. This…this is the most perfect instruction manual ever brought into existence. _How_ could Iris keep this from him?

The answer is obvious: she was ashamed of it. Her professor’s threat frightened her and inspired shame when she should have been nothing less than shamelessly _proud_. This…this is genius. True, complete, irrefutable genius brought to life with nothing but pen and paper, blue ink and white space. This is what has been hiding within Iris’ mind for seven years, tucked away and never revealed, not once. He can scarcely wrap his own mind around it, around this…this…this _masterpiece_.

He doesn’t waste time, not with the excitement bubbling up within him like lava, threatening to erupt at any moment. He returns to his home, to his basement, and quickly cuts the lights. The area already has no windows, the main sources of light are florescent bulbs mounted to the ceiling and along one wall, and when he turns them off, the space is flooded in darkness. Butch never sees him, though he may have heard him reenter, and now that all is dark around them, he certainly can’t see anyone or anything.

“You think I’m afraid of the dark, Zsasz?” the large man calls out, bravado still present even when he’s strapped to a table and stripped naked. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Victor smiles without a word, slowly backtracks and closes the basement door behind him. He’s just getting started.

***

Iris’ predictions were true: he hasn’t seen her in three straight days, but knows she’s keeping very busy at the precinct. The press has dubbed this one “The Phobia Killer”. Victor isn’t impressed. The methods are crude and sloppy and there is absolutely no time to actually relish the phobia being brought to life and overwhelming the victim. From the policemen on Don Falcone’s payroll, he catches whispers about the killer taking something from the victims. The “something” isn’t really discussed; no one seems to know except the investigating detectives. Gordon has at least learned how to keep a lid on certain details for the sake of his cases.

On day four, he takes a break from monitoring his prisoners—according to Iris’ detailed process, the sensory deprivation is a strictly hands-off process and he’s really not accomplishing anything by sitting around the house; he’s already cleaned and sharpened his knives three times—and responds to the need for a short errand. A portly fellow in charge of running a small diner and laundering money for the clan has lost favor with Don Falcone; he has rather sticky fingers with the money he’s supposed to be handing off to his employer, and quite a bit of it has gone missing. Don Falcone has no desire to keep him around; there are others far more capable of performing the task, which means the little man is just a loose thread to be cut from the family. 

Inside the man’s apartment, Victor has his prey in the bathtub, half-naked and whimpering and shaking like a newborn pup, eagerly fingering one of his beautiful knives with hunger in his eyes. It’s a knife with the lovely little arched blade, almost like a small scythe, and he’s resting it delicately between the man’s brow, right at the bridge of his nose, the tip teasing the skin here and there, his mind contemplating just where and how he should cut…and then the bathroom door opens with a loud and disruptive _bang_.

“How, exactly,” Iris demands, marching right through the door with irritation in every step, “am I to get a hold of you if you will not answer your damned phone?”

His grip on the knife clenches and unclenches; the pressure nicks the man’s skin and he wails. Clearly, this one has no pain tolerance whatsoever, if he’s going to fall apart at a little scratch. Fortunately, this apartment is on the side of town where people aren’t known for calling the police at strange and disruptive noises.

“Iris, sweet girl, my dearest one,” Victor slowly says, turning around to face her; he almost loses track of his thoughts with the sight that greets him—her in dark wash jeans, a shirt that showcases her arms and a sliver of her thin waist, hair tussled and eyes heavily shadowed from limited sleep, and sporting a pose that is sassy and irate and far too sexy to be legal, “I am _working_. Working time is _my_ time.”

From the far corner of his eye, he can see the man look at Iris with a teary gaze, silently imploring and pleading for her intervention, even if he’s still too terrified to actually speak. She takes three more steps, hands on her hips, which are cocked, and her shirt just hiked up and he can see her scars peeking out from under the fabric…

“I can see that.” She retorts, unimpressed. “And the fact remains, I still need your help. Have you lost your ability to multi-task, or is he more important to you?”

For a split second, he has the urge to drop the knife and catch her in his arms and kiss her and shower her with promises and reassurances until she knows beyond a doubt that she is the only thing that matters and nothing could ever be more important than her and—

He grips the hilt until the pressure burns in his fingers and he is able to clear his head without pounding it against the tile floors. “Don’t be dramatic, Iris.” He says, pleased when his tone comes out as unimpressed and not mortally wounded, like a romantically-devastated little boy.

Iris lifts her eyebrows, taking another step forward. “Then help me. Carry on, as you were, but I need professional advice.”

“I’m touched.” He replies, and he is rather touched, because he’s sure there are a few other people Jim Gordon would rather her seek advice from than someone who currently has a helpless civilian half-naked in his bathtub and begging for his life. He’d like to know how she knew to find him here, and then realizes she probably reached out to the girls; he’s beginning to wonder if introducing them might have been a mistake on his part, especially now that Girls’ Night Out has become a weekly event. “Ask away.”

The man bursts into a fresh wave of tears at her blatant indifference, and the way Victor turns back to face him, twirling the knife in his fingers, and flicking his tongue against his teeth in consideration. Iris perches atop the toilet, kicking one leg over the other, and begins explanation. Most of it, he already knows from the media coverage, but she fills in the details nicely and succinctly. The “something missing” from the victims is their adrenal glade. Unsurprisingly, no one knows why, and though Iris has some theories, no one is taking them seriously.

“Explain to me, again,” he says, projecting a bit over the wailing sobs from the man convulsing in the tub, while he carefully cuts little shapes in the skin and contemplates if he’ll just settle with scars or if he could possibly turn this man into a true patchwork piece, “why you work with people who have no appreciation for you whatsoever? Why you continue to give them your best efforts and open access to that brilliant mind of yours when they treat it as a joke? And _I_ am left in the dark and only given access when you see fit.”

She pauses. “You have been reading my work.”

“Your _work_ is a thing of beauty, Iris.” He says, finally deciding to go with the second option and, with another bout of high-pitched wails and shrieks, begins extracting the pre-made sections of skin. The curved blade tip works splendidly for the task. “The most exquisite thing I have ever seen in my life. The accumulation of sheer genius that could have been left to wither and die inside a notebook. Why would you ever keep it from me? Why do you keep _yourself_ from me?”

“My mind frightens people, Victor.” She replies, but her voice lacks conviction. “It always has. People do not take pleasure in the inner workings of my mind. They are terrified of me, disgusted by me. They think me no better than the monsters we hunt.”

He abruptly changes course, pausing in the middle of extracting a patch on the man’s chest to suddenly slicing deep into his left cheek and carving out a large mass of fat and flesh. “When,” he slowly says, the tension tight on his tongue and in his throat, “did I fall so low that you classify me with the rest?”

“Never.” She says; the tile shrieks against her heels when she throws herself off the toilet and takes three deliberate forward steps. “Do not even speak such words. You are _never_ among them.”

“Then why do you keep at a distance, Iris?” he asks again, drawing a line down the man’s chest and belly. “Why do you give all of yourself to _them_ and so little to _me_?”

“No one else has ever read those words, Victor.” She says, with a slight bite to her tone. “No one, save my professor. He told me to burn them, and that I was sick.”

_Sick._ The word makes his hand clench and twist violently; he vaguely registers that he just disemboweled the man and consequently ended his fun too soon, but the word is ringing strong in his ears and his hand is shaking a little too hard to be of any real use now. “He said you were sick?”

“Yes.”

“And you believed him?”

She comes to stand beside the bathtub, unblinking at the bloody mess below her vision. “Am I not?” she asks, in the same tone. “My ability to connect with people is limited, at best, to intellectual familiarity and an empathetic understanding of how it feels to be abused and slighted by this world, time and time again. I gaze upon death and decay with barely a blink. I have been forbidden from speaking with victims’ families because I do not hesitate to inform them just how their loved one died, and I have never made a point of playing the sympathetic messenger when their grief is so obviously contrived. Half the city believes I am sick. The other half believes I am a monster among the rest. Most of them believe both.”

He drops the knife with less care than is warranted, takes her by the arms and drags her flush to him. “And what does it matter?” he whispers; the blood on his hands is leaving streaks across her skin, red fluid interrupting porcelain flesh. “What does any of it matter, Iris? Why do you insist on putting so much emphasis into what they think of you?”

“Victor,” she whispers, eyes staring up at him with startled uncertainty, lips quivering just a little with her words, “you are hurting me.”

“Maybe I _need_ to hurt you. Maybe _that_ will make you see sense.” he growls, yanking her even closer, if that’s possible. “They will never accept you, Iris. Never. Just as they will never know you, or want you, or l—”

No. _No._ What is wrong with him? Why would he ever let _that word_ form in his head, let alone nearly speak it? _No._ Absolutely not. Not now. Not ever. He doesn’t. He _doesn’t_. He can’t, he doesn’t, he won’t. _Never._

“They will never accept the real you, Iris.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “They will always be afraid of you, they will never trust you, and they will never truly want you. _I_ do. When will that be enough?”

“It is.” She whispers. “It always has been.”

There are many thing he could do right now. He could kiss her, take her words for what they are without requiring additional proof, and say all is forgiven. He could demand more words and some action—the exact details, he doesn’t know—or he could hit her because her words are nice and pretty but her actions speak louder. He elects to release her, more roughly than usual, and steps away to collect his knife and clean up in the sink.

“You’re looking for a scientist, of sorts.” He says, over the water flow, without looking at her. “Which, of course, you already know, so I’m sure there is little more I can tell you. Except a warning: he very likely has a god-complex, which means he will not come quietly and he will not come alive. The only way you will stop him is with a bullet in the head.”

“Victor…”

“I have to go.” He says, still refusing to look at her, even when he turns around, pockets the knife, and walks past her for the door. “Don’t let me keep you.”

***

Juvenile. Disgustingly juvenile, blatantly immature, obscenely ridiculous, and without a single drop of self-control or proper poise and elegance. He wishes he hadn’t left the gun at home, because he needs it to pistol-whip himself.

There is absolutely no reason for him to behave this way. He’s not a teenager, pining jealously over some beauty queen who is so completely out of his reach. Iris is his, _only_ his, always his. She has always wanted him, only ever wanted him. She loves him. She _loves_ him. Why is he acting like a spoiled toddler?

A foolish question with an obvious answer. He is a jealous man. He is a possessive man. And he is not a man who shares his lover. Iris has, from the moment she was extracted from the seclusion of her childhood, sought to find some acceptance in this world. He could play therapist all night, but he doesn’t really need to. He knows her. He knows her so very well, far better than anyone, than all of them. Her complete lack of affection, acceptance, and everything else that most people take for granted, has led to some very unfortunate side effects. Namely, her refusal to realize that no one in this city will ever want her, or know her, or understand her. Not like he does. Never like he does. 

_“It is. It always has been.”_

And yet, is he? Is he really enough? If he is, why does she constantly return to Gordon’s side, to the precinct where she is constantly at risk, where there is a lingering threat to her life, where no one appreciates her or regards her as anything better than a nuisance? Why is she satisfied with being nothing more than a doormat beneath their feet when she could be so, so much more? What is she never satisfied with being _his_?

His thoughts speak of insecurity, of a lover fearing his affections are ultimately unrequited and he’s only one day away from losing his beloved to someone richer, or stronger, or better. It makes him sick to even consider it.

It takes him an hour to get back home. Don Falcone makes lengthy inquiries about the progress with Butch, and how soon he’ll be ready to get back to work. The club, under Penguin’s lackluster management, is suffering seriously. The business is dwindling. The lack of customer traffic is embarrassing. Essentially, he’s been put on a deadline: three more weeks, at best. That is all the more money Don Falcone is willing to risk losing on the club, before things need to change, and drastically.

Victor doesn’t much appreciate guidelines or deadlines, or timelines of any kind, but he appreciates the need for it. And the sooner he finishes with Butch, the sooner he can get on to the main course.

When he walks inside his house, he takes a moment to listen at the basement door. Four days in complete solitude, absolute sensory deprivation, has done wonders for his prey. From defiant and arrogant to a whimpering mess in only a matter of days. And this is just the beginning. He has barely cracked the surface, barely dipped his feet into the glorious ocean that is Iris’ beautiful mind. There is so, so much more in that book. So much more.

He walks inside his bedroom and stops in the doorway. Iris is seated cross-legged on the bed, the binder spread across her lap, fingers idly stroking the pages, eyes running across the words with intent focus. It’s like a glimpse back into the past, when she was first conceiving this brain-child, her mind at work without a care for anything or anyone else around her.

This is the vision he holds so near and dear, because it is one way in which they are closest. Her work is her pride and joy, the one thing she knows, beyond a doubt, that she excels in. Even when surrounded by nothing but cold dismissal and arrogance without appreciation for all she does, for how hard she works, she knows her strengths and she holds them with great pride. He too works very hard, with great delight and dedication to his art. And that is preciously what it is—art. When every last bit of effort and devotion is poured into the work, the final result is a true masterpiece. No one else sees it. No one else has ever seen the beauty in his work…except her. She sees it.

“How do you plan to proceed onto the next phase?” Iris asks, still focused on the book, intentionally and deliberately; she’s sending a message, and he’s receiving it only too well. “Have you planned it out or are you going to be proceeding by impulse alone?”

He doesn’t like following impulse, because it can lead to all sorts of trouble and creates a mess more often than it does a pretty picture. But tonight is an exception. He seems to be making quite a few of those lately, with her.

She doesn’t respond when he joins her on the bed, wraps his arms around her waist and brings her against his chest, but neither does she push him away or shove him off the mattress. And when he rests his cheek to her temple, she leans into him, just a little. It’s an apology without words and forgiveness given in silence. They’ve always spoken with their own language, something no one else understands.

He kisses her, right at the hairline, and nuzzles her very slowly. “Show me.” He whispers. “Teach me.”

It’s a complete surrender, handing control over to her with only two words, and his pride is having a fit. She is younger than him, has experienced less of this world—the underworld, the darkness that permeates every last corner of it, and the people inhabiting it—and she certainly doesn’t know the first thing about inflicting torture on a human being, let alone taking a life. His pride declares this akin to handing over the paintbrush of a master to a little girl, knowing she’ll make a total mess of what otherwise could have been perfection.

But another voice is speaking above his pride, one he doesn’t recognize, but it’s much stronger and far more persuasive. This voice says this is what Iris has wanted from him all along, and reminds him—with plenty of supporting memories—that she has never failed him. She has pleased him, made him proud in ways he’d never previously imagined possible, and she has never disappointed him. She has never failed him. There’s no reason to think she’d start now.

***

Three days produce marvelous results. He follows her direction, watches with rapt attention as she demonstrates the effects of sensory deprivation with the most mundane little items—a feather, the click of heels on concrete floors, a soft exhale here and there against the bare skin. The cloth over his eyes keeps Butch blind, so they can work in the light, and the large man’s senses are overused and overstimulated. 

On the first day, when Iris poked him with a needle, he did nothing but flinch. Now, when Iris takes a small sewing needle and sets it to his shoulder, even very lightly, he jerks as though electrified and whimpers. She then steps back, silent on bare feet, waits three minutes, and does it again on the other side, with far more pressure. Butch wails.

She looks exquisite. Her hair is loosely braided, tendrils falling here and there against her cheeks and neck; the cotton shorts show off far more skin than she’d ever reveal in public, but it enables him to run slow gazes over the gracious curves and delicate lines of her legs; the excessively large sweater hangs loose, showcasing one entire shoulder and half the arm. It’s a world apart from the meticulously-dressed woman he’s seen before, but she looks so comfortable, so at ease, and so incredibly focused on her work. He can easily replace the sewing needle with a painter’s brush in his mind, and Butch is her canvas.

After a moment’s consideration, she sets the needle down; her eyes slowly run over the other objects laid out on the small table—mostly meaningless household items that hold absolutely no threat whatsoever, except to someone who doesn’t know what they are and their mind isn’t currently in the most stable condition—and then her eyes rove over to the knives. He keeps them in the basement, for work, and they never leave unless he needs them for an errand. She stares at them for a very long, very intent moment, and when she slowly steps toward them with fingers already outstretched, his breath catches tight in his lungs.

She selects one of the smaller blades, designed like a scalpel, and curls her fingers reverently around the handle before turning back to Butch. Her gaze is calm and steady, which is a far cry from the rush of dizzying heat thrumming through his veins, just from watching her. She comes to stand at Butch’s left side, thumb brushing the underside of her chosen knife, and his traitorous mind is producing some very obscene images at the sight.

“Are you ready to do whatever Mr. Zsasz says, Butch?” Iris murmurs; she doesn’t add herself into the conversation. She places him at the forefront, places him at the center of Butch’s focus and labels him the master to command his puppet. She is within her right to usurp this and claim Butch for herself, but she doesn’t. It’s a gift, and it is a beautiful gift.

Four seconds pass, and then Butch gives a half-hearted affirmative answer; it’s the kind of answer a tortured prisoner gives just to make the suffering cease, to appease his captors and earn some kind of relief. Just say what the torturer wants to hear and everything will be over. Iris stands in place, contemplating his answer, and there’s a moment when Victor feels the teasing approach of absolute disappointment. Surely that can’t be how this all ends? Surely Iris wouldn’t be satisfied with—

Her hand moves faster than his eyes; he doesn’t actually see her do it, but when there is a neat cut at the side of Butch’s left pectoral muscle, right in the tender fleshy area where the chest and arm meet, no longer than an inch in length, a steady stream of crimson is trickling downward, and Butch is writhing and sobbing apologies, there’s no mistaking what she did.

With surgical precision, she turns and retrieves the disinfectant from the table. The blade is carefully cleaned first, while the wound continues bleeding, and once she’s cleaned it to satisfaction, she applies a spray nozzle to the bottle top, turns back, and sprays the wound five times before setting the bottle back down. “You hesitated, Butch.” She says, with a very disappointed tone.

Butch doesn’t say much, just whimpers at the stinging pain; the disinfectant works very quickly on his wound, white foam bubbling up and turning pink at the edges, where chemical meets blood. Iris collects a small dry cloth, returns to him, and carefully—gently, even—dabs and wipes at the cut. She tends to it with nurturing care, like a mother to her child, and then speaks again. “Why did you hesitate, Butch?”

“I…I d-don’t know…”

“There must be a reason.” She presses, sounding very much like a mother; this is a slight deviation from her written instruction, and Victor’s ears quickly perk up at the change, taking in the scene before him with enraptured eyes. “Tell me why you hesitated.”

When Butch doesn’t answer, she sighs, in that same disappointed tone, and looks at him even though he can’t see her. “Butch,” she says, very softly, “do we need to leave you alone again?”

“N-No!” he chokes on the word, around a broken sob, and he quivers violently at the mere suggestion. Victor licks his lips at the sight.

“No?” Iris repeats, setting the stained cloth aside. “I think we do. Because you are being very, very disobedient right now. And Mr. Zsasz and I do not reward disobedience, Butch.” She takes a calculated step back. “I think two days should be enough time to help you reconsider your behavior.”

“No! No, p-please!”

“You should have thought of your pleas before you chose not to answer me, Butch.” She replies, without a hint of mercy or apologies in her voice. “We will see you in two days. Think very, very hard about what you did wrong, and how you will correct this behavior.”

“No, please!” he wails, thrashing slightly against the restraints. “I-I’ll do better, I promise! I’ll do better!”

Iris says nothing; Victor follows her upstairs to the small living room, where she drops down on the couch with an irritated sigh. “He is being incredibly difficult.” She declares, shaking her head. “I cannot understand it. Grown men placed in solitary confinement for one day show better responses than him.”

“Let me try.” Victor says, with a thin smile. “I can make him behave.”

She gives him a highly unimpressed look. “You tried physical force once, Victor. It did not work.”

“And encouraging a Mommy kink will work better?”

He does regret the words as soon as they leave his mouth, because Iris looks mortally offended and halfway to tears at the accusation. “ _Mommy kink_?” she repeats, eyes flashing as she abruptly stands. “Is _that_ what you are gleaning from all this, Victor? When did I fall so low in _your_ eyes?”

“Shhh,” he says, quickly crossing the distance and wrapping her in his arms, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. Hush, now. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did.” She mumbles, still sounding utterly devastated; perhaps he could stand to think more carefully before he speaks. “You think I am utilizing some perverse variation of sadomasochism.”

“I’m making assumptions and getting ahead of myself.” He murmurs, stroking her hair. “I haven’t given you enough time to teach me. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, sweet girl. Now, calm yourself and tell me more.”

***

It’s actually very, very simple. So simple and yet so ingenious: when physical torture fails, utilize psychological torment, and when psychological torment isn’t working in and of itself, break the mind so thoroughly that the victim is nothing less than wholly dependent and absolutely dedicated to their tormentor. It’s Stockholm’s Syndrome at its finest. And Iris is very, very good at it.

Victor opts to stay in the background, watching and learning and cataloguing every last bit of this in his memory. He has no desire to work on Fish like this—he doesn’t need her dependent upon him, in way, shape, for form—but for a possible future use, he doesn’t want to miss a single detail. This is, truly, a masterpiece. This is watching an artist at her canvas, each swipe of the brush, each stroke and new streak of paint, and it all comes together into an…exquisite vision.

Butch has stopped quivering; his body is back under his control, and he isn’t sniveling and whimpering anymore. Iris is standing nearby, considering him with a critical eye. He’s not sure what, exactly, she’s looking for, but from the way she is slowly pacing around the gurney, each step calculated, her eyes always moving, which means her mind is working. He loves seeing her mind at work. It is a beautiful thing.

She’s been pacing on silent feet for a while. Three hours, in fact. His muscles are getting a little cramped, from leaning against the wall without moving for all this time, but apart from shifting his arms now and then, he doesn’t move. He wouldn’t miss a minute of this, not for anything. It’s so different, to see her dressed so loosely, so simply, with bare feet and hair mussed and tussled. It’s a very intimate portrait, almost more so than when she’s naked and in his arms.

Iris leans closer to Butch, her voice very soft, and she begins to speak to him. Victor can’t quite hear what is being said, and part of him wants to know, wants to be involved; the rest of him doesn’t want to ruin this. Stockholm’s works best when it is an intimate affair, when there is one sole source of human contact for a man otherwise completely starved of human presence and consequently is desperate for it. She literally has him in the palm of her hand, as evidenced when she reaches out and sets a touch to Butch’s cheek. She murmurs something, he nods, and she praises him with tender words, then lifts her hand to pull the blindfold away from his eyes.

Butch’s eyes are definitely bloodshot, between the tears he’d cried and multiple sleepless nights, and the eyelids are swollen with heavy shadows. He needs a bath, a decent meal, and some clothes, but he looks at Iris with a reverent gaze and without a single word. Speak only when you’re spoken to.

“You have done very, very well, Butch.” She murmurs, setting the blindfold aside on the table. “I am very pleased.”

“Thank you, Miss DeLaine.” He says; his voice is raspy and cracked, underused and wrung dry with the tears and heavy breathing and screaming. But it’s what he’s saying that counts, not the way his voice sounds.

She smiles. At least, it looks like a smile, but Victor recognizes a rehearsed expression from a genuine one, especially on her face. He taught her the difference, and he’s the only one who ever makes her smile. Really, truly, honestly smile. Only him.

“Very good.” She nods, patting his cheek gently and then stepping away. “You are not quite ready, not yet, but I think you will be very soon. Do you think you will be ready?”

He sniffs, very quietly, and nods. “Yes, Miss DeLaine.”

“And in the meantime, you will do exactly as you are told?”

“Yes, Miss DeLaine.”

Iris’ eyebrow lift in a smooth arch, communicating something without words; whatever it is, Butch catches on immediately. “Yes, Miss DeLaine. Yes, Mr. Zsasz.”

_Ah._ Victor doesn’t bother hiding the look of surprised delight. His dearest girl...

“Very good, Butch.” She nods, with the same smile on her lips as she croons her praise. “Get some rest now.” There’s very little chance Butch will be doing any resting, but it’s sweet of her to offer the option, nonetheless. “We will see you in the morning.”

***

By the end of week two, Victor is quite confident Butch is ready to be turned over to Don Falcone, a new and reformed man, an shining example of Iris’ magnificent brain and all the wonders that come from its glorious depths, but when he approaches the subject on the morning of day fifteen, while she’s stretched across the couch, reviewing something in the book, she surprises him. Again.

“I stole your glory.” she says, quite seriously and sounding remorseful. “He was supposed to be yours; I was only meant to show you certain aspects, and instead I commandeered your work.”

“This is your work.” He reminds her, stepping around the couch to come closer. “An artist doesn’t submit a masterpiece and not sign the canvas. I asked you to teach me, and you did. I am on observational learner, first and foremost.”

Her lips lift in what could be an affectionate smirk or just a tiny smile. “I am touched by your tender heart, Victor.” She says, shifting position to let him sit beside her; he opts to let her get away with that kind of language, because she’s so clearly being playful. “But Butch was given over to you, not me. You deserve the final approval.”

“He was given to me because your uncle doesn’t know what wonders lie inside this head of yours.” He murmurs, gliding fingertips across her hairline. “Do you think I’m so selfish that I wouldn’t share?”

“Victor…”

“Let me have Fish, all to myself.” He continues, shifting even closer, pressing against her folded legs until they part and he has access to slip between them with one hand running firmly up her thigh. “Let me put what you taught me into practice with her. That’s all I ask. Butch is yours.”

“ _You_ are mine.” She says, with such ferocity in her tone and gaze that he experiences the overwhelming urge to take her in his arms and kiss every inch of her. Every inch. “Butch is the willing participant upon which I was able to test my theories. Nothing more.”

“Then take credit for it.”

She huffs acquiesce, nods, and both hands begin a slow upward path from his elbows to shoulders. “What is to become of Butch now?”

He tells her the plan, as handed down verbally from her uncle; she is less than impressed with the declaration that he is to be given over to Penguin for the sake of restoring the club’s business. No doubt, she feels all her hard work is going to be ruined in a matter of days, and he’s not sure the fear is misplaced. He runs both hands to her hips, tugging her closer, and promises to bring Butch back every one to two weeks for a treatment session, because the first and most important rule of conducting any scientific experiment is to conduct plenty of follow-up.

Iris’ eyes are bright and her smile radiant. “You promise me this, my tiger?”

“I swear it.” He murmurs, with great affection; he doesn’t get to see her so happy, not often. And only a few times in the past has he ever been responsible for making her so happy. That needs to change. When people are happy, they return to the source of such emotion, frequently and without needing persuasion in the matter.

He made her happy once, when she was a younger child. He was her one source of happiness and delight. He can be that for her again. He _will_.


End file.
